


Apricity

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: Split Second (1992)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Drama, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Missing Scene, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 10:45:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12431163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: Whenever someone new joined the department the whispers started.





	Apricity

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own "Split Second" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: I have no idea why the hell I am writing fanfiction for a movie from 1992. But here we are, so yeah-
> 
> Warnings: soulmate au, au on the scene in Thrasher's office, adult language, sexual content, drama, romance, first time, angst.

"Freeze!"

"Police!"

"Get out of my way!"

* * *

Whenever someone new joined the department the whispers started.

Sometimes he heard them before he even saw the bastard.

But most times it was a mixture of the two.

It was always the same damn thing. Every single shit-head in the bullpen would all but throw the new sacrificial lamb at him at any given opportunity. Hoping they'd be his one and he'd mellow out a little. Statistically it was how most people did it. Soulmates were generally drawn into the same line of work and most times they'd ended up bonding like a god damned snap of the fingers. Most people in the department already had and the lion's share were determined his other half was just around the corner.

So yeah, he'd heard about the new guy.

He just didn't care.

And neither would you if you'd gone through the same damn thing your entire fucking career.

He wasn't stupid. He knew he was pretty much a textbook example of what happened to a person who'd gotten this far without finding their soulmate. He was a fucking wreck. Damaged goods. A good cop who'd crashed and burned a long time ago and was now making the rounds from city to city every five years so he could be someone else's problem. Someone else's loose cannon. And that was with all the Foster and serial killer shit on the side.

The truth was, people weren't meant to survive alone.

Somewhere along the line you just faded.

He was half convinced that spite and caffeine were the only things keeping him alive. Figuring that when he finally caught Foster's killer they'd find him parked in his car somewhere before the bastard was even cold in the morgue. Dead from the strain of it all.

The worst of it was, part of him had even started looking forward to it.

He was tired.

Stripped down in a way he didn't know a person could get and still be breathing.

And part of him wanted it to be over.

* * *

He didn't realize they weren't alone in the room before the man from the club the night before spoke. And while he was too tense for anything to truly surprise him, on a professional level he was pissed he hadn't seem him coming in.

_Get your head straight, Stone! You have a killer to catch._

"Sir, all the evidence and research shows that a killer of this type doesn't come back."

"Who is this?" he snapped, tasting the stale of his breath against his tongue as the room started to shrink small with the three of them stuffed into it..

"Detective Dick Durkin."

And just like that, as far as he was concerned the man was irrelevant. He'd like to say it was just how he was with people, but mostly he just didn't have the energy.

"You sure its him?" Thrasher ground out.

"He ripped her heart out."

"Her heart? What for?"

"Maybe he eats them for breakfast."

"This wasn't in the police reports or the newspapers," Durkin accused suddenly, breaking in.

There was irritation there. Lurking in the back of the man's tone as Durkin leaned forward. Incredulous in that way only the new ones were. The ones that still had all their morals and scruples from the academy intact. Before reality trampled them into the muck and the shit and made a mockery of all their good intentions.

"And its never gonna to be. You got that?" Thrasher snarled, quick on the mark like he wanted to make no mistake about it. "Jesus, once they get wind of that they'd have a field day."

"This changes things," Durkin broke in. "I thought we were dealing with a psychotic, not a psychopath. And with such incredible strength he must be under extreme mental distress or on some kind of stimulant."

"Who _is_  this?"  
He said it with more emphasis this time. Edgy. Feeling something off kilter and bubbling-warm spreading underneath his skin the longer they shared the same air.

"I'm curious, how did you know he was going to strike at that club last night?" Durkin asked.

He shivered, shoulders hunching in spite of himself when the man shuffled closer. Earnest, sharp and overeager in a way that pulled at him immediately. Wanting to hate the naivety, but finding himself unable to force to words to knock him down a peg.

"I didn't."

"But you were there before he struck."

"So?"

For the first time since he'd entered Thrasher's office he was grateful he was sitting down. Feeling almost dizzy, but in a pleasant, loopy way that reminded him of a nice buzz after a long drink.

"That's an incredible coincidence."

_God- what was that?_

He felt almost-

"So you know what this is? This is a medical report on you," Thrasher broke in, slicing the moment into an unwanted third as half his attention remained fixed on the sound of Durkin breathing. "The doctors say you have anxiety neurosis to the point of being paranoid."

"Doctors don't know shit."

_Because they didn't._

Most of the time, anyway.

"How many weapons you carrying besides this cannon?"

"An MP15."

Durkin shifted behind him. Surprised. Concerned. Impressed. For some reason he could sense it. All the little shades. All the parts people thought they weren't letting out into the open. Gestures, micro-expressions, the self-soothing rhythms. Every single piece was accessible. Like an open fucking book.

_What the shit?_

"What else?"

"A Glock 50," he said flatly. Tired again. Confused. Irritated. And to cap it all off he kind of had to piss.

"And?"

"An A3 assault shotgun."

"If that's not paranoid I don't know what the fuck is. I'm surprised you don't have a grenade launcher.

"Couldn't get a permit," he remarked with a shrug.

The low, soft little chuckle that rolled from Durkin's lips was warming. Surprising him even as Thrasher's face screwed up. Looking about as pleased as a wet cat that he and his new toy were already commiserating.

"This isn't funny!"

He sighed.

"I just want to be ready."

"Ready for what? You can't even find the bastard let alone shoot him!"

"I can find him."

"Look, if you know so much about this fella how come we have a corpse with her heart ripped out? And you're up alleys shooting at water rats!"

He looked over at Durkin with a strange, and yeah- he'd admit unfair feeling of betrayal bubbling up underneath the rage. Grabbing the man by the god damned tie as he forced him to heel. Almost animally pleased when Durkin gave without contest. Letting him manhandle him despite pursed lips he kind of wanted to ruin with his own.

"Have you been following me?!" he snapped.

There wasn't a reply, but the man's mouth opened anyway. Looking up at him from behind thin prescription lens like the exhale - toothpaste, mouthwash, pen-ink, tea - stood as an apology on its own.

"Damn right he has. Paranoid people with guns are a menace to society," Thrasher growled. Like he'd brought this on himself and everyone but him had seen it coming. Blind to the fact that line he'd been walking had always had this kind of fork in it.

"You'd be paranoid too if you had a dipshit like this following you!"

He wasn't sure if there was a weakness in the fabric or he'd just plain misjudged how much force he used when he snagged the man's tie. But when he yanked it forward, the buttons on the man's collar popped. Pinging across Thrasher's desk and into the corners to be one with the dust bunnies.

_Shit._

"This dipshit happens to be an expert on serial killers!" Thrasher roared back, barely blinking as the second button catapulted inches from his head. Looking sickly amused - like he knew something he didn't - as Durkin was forced to lean into him. Warm and long-lithed in a way he hadn't counted on. Something that made him want to drop the man's tie like a brand but instead only found himself clutching it tighter. Like letting go at this point was impossible.

"If he's such an expert why the fuck-"

He broke off at the sound of tearing cloth. Realizing he'd really done it this time as the tie slipped its knot and went limp in his hands. The resulting force sending his hand thunking against the bare of Durkin's breast-bone. The action a jumbled mess of anxiety, peaceful violence and heartburn when his knuckles drifted accidentally over the nub of an Adam's apple. Flirting with the bob of the man's throat and-

_Oh._

Every muscle in his body slung lax. Just like that. Like for the first time in his life every part of him melted down into something  _so_  soft and  _so_  good that he actually felt his cock twitch against his thigh.

The man's lids fluttered. Lips parting as he half-collapsed against the line of his back. Like Durkin was trying to disappear into the grooves of his spine, hands kneading. Almost keeling clean over as his mouth made sounds. Looking so damned kissable that-

_Mine._

He didn't have the presence of mind to consider an alternative. Somehow, deep down in the old rotting part of him that was starting to crumble to the foundations, Durkin had opened new ground. Slotting into place around the old beams and supports that were just inches from giving away. Reminding him what it felt like to breathe without Foster's dead weight. Without forty years of just him. Without-

_Yeah._

His.

"I knew it," Durkin breathed. Licking lips so god damn appealing he couldn't help but lean in and feel the ghost of them against his cheek. "I  _knew_ you were mine."

For the first time in days there was only one heartbeat pounding between his ears.

He opened his mouth, finding he already had one of Durkin's hands half-crushed in his own. Not entirely sure why he immediately raised the inner of the man's wrist to his nose and inhaled. But glad as fuck he had considering the rush it gave him. Nearly rocking himself backwards as the man's scent rushed endorphins and every good, half-promised thing through him like the world's best piece of chocolate.

Durkin just shuddered.

"Are you fucking serious?!" Thrasher bugled, chair shooting out from under him as he scrambled out of range. Cutting quick to the exit of his own office despite blustering the entire way. Because pissed off or not, everyone knew not to get in the middle of a bonding. "Clear the fucking bullpen people! Stone's gone and fucking found him-  _fucking finally_! His god damned soulmate and I fucking hired him.  _Fuck!_  Someone get janitorial on the line! My office is going to need hazmat after their fucking through-  _god damnit!_  Fine time for it too- with a killer on the lose! Jesus Christ, Stone!"

He looked away for a split second, getting a glimpse of the room outside Thrasher's office as it all but exploded into an excited whirl of activity. And in that fraction Durkin just fucking  _launched_  himself at him.

He got slammed flat against the desk. Feeling the crash reverberate through his god damned teeth as Durkin clambered on top of him. Yanking at the collar of his leather jacket with a needy sound.

"Off. Get it off. Off, god damn it!"

He heard the leather whine – distressed and straining - before the seam gave in the left shoulder. He snarled and retaliated by ripping off the rest of the man's buttons. Until that stupidly over-pressed suit was parted down the middle and Durkin was half in and half out of his suit jacket. Hair wild and the skin around his lips red like nothing in his life had prepared them for the ferocity.

And hell if that wasn't a picture.

"Fuck!"

Durkin didn't kiss like how he looked. He kissed like a fucking punch in the mouth. Like he was a glorious son of a bitch and he knew it. Softly cocky in that way only genuinely talented, worthwhile people are. Without the need for fanfare to advertise the fact.

And look at him, he'd become a fucking poet.

Durkin snarled, grinding down on his cock through their layers like a backhand. Making him redouble his efforts to squirm out of his jacket and shirt as Durkin nearly yanked them right down to the floor as he tossed everything behind him. Smashing the screen of Thrasher's computer with the buckle of his belt as the entire thing toppled off the edge of the desk with a messy sound.

By the time he'd gotten square with him, Durkin's dick was straining out of his fly. Long, red and angling a natural right from a crown of auburn-brown curls. Dripping pre-cum like it was going out of style as the first few drops dappled across his belly. Feeling the warmth of them like they'd been shot up to boiling as the man leaned down for a messy kiss. Knotting his hand in his hair and  _just_   _taking it_  like he was fucking used to it. Like him being underneath him was-

He surged up, muscles curling. Finding the energy somehow as momentum slammed them up against the window. Feeling Durkin's hands fumbling with his belt and the hook of his jeans as his cock blurted messily between them. Exhaling prettily into the crux of his neck when he finally had something to move against.

_Him._

And fuck if he'd seen anything hotter in his life.

Durkin hummed as he jerked into the flat of his belly. Trying for words before the silence lapsed back. Forcing the taller man to close his eyes and really try this time. Until even he got the hint and pulled back - teeth not quite leaving off where they were worrying at the plush of the man's lower lip.

Needy.

Quiet.

Breathless.

"Is there-" Durkin asked, careful and hopeful and-

Oh.

Right.

_Fuck._

He tore himself away, leaning back towards one of Thrasher's drawers.

He'd take fucking lotion at this point.

Gun oil even.

He grinned with bared teeth when his fingers slapped around a fresh tube of slick. Deciding to take the good where he could find it and not ask questions he didn't want to know the answers to as the drawer slammed itself closed again. Uncapping the thing with a wrench that gushed almost half of it across his hand. Whirling Durkin around until he was pressed flat against the glass. Nudging his legs apart as he traced around the rim of the man's hole before dipping inside. Nearly having a god damned heart attack at the tightness.

He was going to fucking die with his cock jammed up Durkin's ass, he fucking knew it.

"Stone- just-"

His patience frayed around the same time Durkin's did. Wrenching him away from the window and back across the desk until Durkin was all but wilted against it. Ass up and waiting as he fucking _wheezed_  at the sight. Half conscious of the blinds coming loose off the wall behind them. Baring his teeth at the muted cheer that rose up beyond the windows as Durkin scratched his nails down the lacquer of Thrasher's desk - panting.

He paused, barely, with his cock pressed against the man's hole. Looking down at him for a moment as something swelled warm in his chest. Reminding himself to label the entire thing as dangerous when he got stuck on the lean lines of Durkin's limbs and the curve of his spine dotted with moles and freckles. A god damned treasure map just for him to follow as Durkin's hand found his and squeezed down on the delineated tensions.

And maybe it was that, more than anything, that made him realize maybe he'd never really been ready for his life to end at all. Maybe he'd just been waiting to share it.

"You took your damn time," he breathed, exhaling in a rush as he slowly -  _so slowly_  - pressed inside. Feeling him open around him as he cleaved in like the best type of violence. Feeling Durkin tense, tense, tense- then- just as easily,  _give._

_Holy fuck._

"What did you expect?" Durkin rasped, turning his head so he could see him even as the desk started to rock backwards. Screeching in time with every thrust. Feeling every fucking inch of the ruin his body had become as the bond between glowed molten. Spreading that feeling through him again. That one that told him Durkin's smile was going to be a familiar friend. That he'd never be alone again. That everything was going to be alright because- "Robbing the cradle and all."

He smashed a laugh into the back of the man's spine before nudging up with his thigh, encouraging Durkin to bend. The change in angle pulling a groan out of both of them as the desk underneath them made a splintering sound.

Durkin's legs scrambled for purchase against the pitted linoleum when he started fucking into him in earnest. Thrusting so deep that he was already lost. Hips pumping as the desk creaked and Durkin' cursed like a god damned sailor. Heaping praise and threats like they were the same animal as the dull thud of the desk slamming against the wall underlined the wet slap of flesh against flesh. Only adding to the chorus when he reached around and fisted the man's prick. Pulling a high sound out of Durkin's throat as he bucked up and came – just like that. Gushing between his fingers like a god damned faucet as he clamped down on his cock and-

He groaned.

Suddenly understanding what they talked about in the movies.

That moment when it all went white.

When all there was was Durkin.

Around him.

Underneath him.

In him.

_His._

The moment where time fucking stutters and the bond glows bright.

He buried his face into the dip of Durkin's shoulder when he came. Screaming it out as reality tore away from him like something still bleeding. Like something shaking and alive and far, far better than he'd ever imagined as Durkin shifted underneath him. Turning so he could catch him before he collapsed. Holding him close to his chest as they rolled off the desk and onto the floor together. Breathing hard and shuddering out wordless, desperate sounds like the world was coming to an end.

But even if it was, they couldn't bring themselves to care.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

* * *

"We aren't out of the woods yet, are we?" Durkin asked the ceiling sometime later. Head pillowed in the crook where arm met chest as he lit his last cigarette with the comforting flare of fire against raw tobacco.

"Not even close, partner," he answered back. Exhaling in a rich, nicotine-laden cloud before passing it over to Durkin to puff. Watching it plume grey, dangerously close to the sprinkler head in the ceiling as he shifted. The floor almost uncomfortably cool against his naked ass, but unable to keep the smile from his face when Durkin snorted.

Because for the first time in a long time there was a future attached to that ending.

And that was a good thing.

He figured that went without saying, considering how things had turned out.

**Author's Note:**

> Reference:
> 
> * apricity: the warmth of the sun in the winter


End file.
